


and the countryside not caring

by rathxritter



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, F/M, World War I, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19253923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: September 1915: after a row with his father, Fitz is sent to France. On the eve of his departure he and Jemma plan to tryst.(FitzSimmons + things you said when you were scared)





	and the countryside not caring

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from MCMXIV by Philip Larkin. 
> 
> Unbeta'd.

The War Office, a large neo-Baroque building completed in 1906, was quiet and deserted. Empty corridors with large windows that faced Horse Guards Avenue, outside life passed by in what appeared like a never ending, almost infinite, flux: people going on with their lives, like millions of others, unaffected by war even now that such a cataclysmic event was unmistakably no longer a superlative tragedy, an exasperating interruption of private lives. A bit of a conundrum, thought Fitz as he walked down the tiled corridor, his steps echoing though the hall, for at this very moment, outside the building, were women and relatives looking through the list of names, searching for that of a loved one - black letters on yellowish paper, tears. The War Office, with its trapezoidal shape, the centre of a microcosm in which war was inescapable, a solid and tangent presence: the city, it seemed, could never achieve the same indifference as the countryside; Things were done differently.

He stopped, taking his time to look outside: a familiar view that of the city, with the road down below and there, between the buildings the spots of green of St. James's Park shyly showing themselves, partially impaired by his own reflection staring back at him. The face of a stranger, familiar feature altered by fear and tiredness: his own self, albeit a worn out version of him, pale and exhausted and ever so terrified. Beneath him, flocks of people walking down the street, in a hurry, some of them stopping and eventually walking up the five steps - dragging their feet, slowly, time stretching out. A week from now, Jemma could be one of them.

The school at which she taught was a couple of blocks away,  but it was not her habit to pass by for news: her brothers' names, that of a friend - soon she would have to look out for his too. Not like that, trapped with a nagging sense of worry and panic, trapped in a never ending and vicious cycle that reduced a whole world to names printed on paper; If anything were to happen to him, than someone had to tell her in person: neat and tidy, profoundly human. His mother, perhaps, or his sister, even Radcliffe would do - either of them could make a phone call, even best come down to London and deliver the news personally: he had to make sure to tell them.

Large and imposing, threatening, a familiar place with its wooden doors and its pillars, the recently constructed staircases covered with red carpets - firm and solid beneath people's feet, ever so different from the ones at home, the ancient house with all its nooks and corners. An idealized memory, the idea of the park just across the street fuelling the nostalgia and melancholy, of paradise-like place, the myth of the country house made into reality: He'd never take Jemma there, despite his promise, and he could never show her the old tree with its charms hanging on it. For them, only London a city that he had always been fond of but now appeared nightmarish, smaller, oppressing.

A place where to get lost, people did not know him here.

A place were the horrors weren't forgotten, war was closer here than it was in the north.

A place that could be the last thing he saw, he should have said goodbye to his mother.

Fresh air, the crisp smell of Autumn mixing with the lingering petrichor and smoke. A familiar smell, so London-like, that filled his nostrils as soon as he opened the doors and left, jumping down the five steps in front of the War Office and turning left - crying, the noise seemed far away, out of his own reality. Above him and at his back, the four distinctive domes, built to hide the building's irregular shape, towered themselves against the clear blue sky: not a cloud, the only evidence of the last couple of days' bad weather were the puddles that starred the street. Dusty and still surfaces disrupted as a honking car drove down the road - water splashing on to the pavements and mud clinging to the car's wheels.

Four o'clock, sharp. The sound of the Big Ben echoed through the air. Loud, the tower itself and the parliament only half a mile away: Gothic style, Englishness, national identity - he had always liked them best. The bell sounded the hour relentlessly and ensured the passage of time, each gong bringing him closer to the following morning and consequentially fuelling both his panic and his sorrow: his heart was pounding in his chest, rapidly, accelerating at the mere thought of  what had happened and could happen. A messenger of  unhappy thoughts, Fitz found himself wishing for the leaden circles to just disappear into the air: Time stopping at once and life moving on, trapping and safeguarding him forever in one single moment.

Four o'clock, sharp. Either Jemma was late or he was terribly early, presumably a mix of both: shared blame, even though a selfish part of him, infinitesimally small and very loud, was mad at her for her lack of punctuality; She was wasting precious time, they did not have forever. But it wasn't Jemma, of that he was aware, he was merely trying to find something, a justification, to leash out and let go of all his anger - cold, boiling inside him, he would have loved to trash his own office. Fitz had never felt so much like his father before.

"Look at this horror! And you in that dreadful uniform!"

Fitz looked up, seeing Jemma all but running towards him. Reddened cheeks and long strides, her bag was bouncing against her leg at every movement, some strains had escaped the bun at the back of her neck and now messily framed her face, moving in the soft breeze. Fondness washing over him, a smile, love! His heart beat faster, sweaty palms he wiped on his khaki trousers before raising his hand in greeting. At last! A delight in such a sorrowful day.

"Miss Simmons." He stopped. Then, lowering his voice and abandoning all formalities, a much more suitable tone between such old friends, he added, "Jemma."

"How do you do?"

He did not answer. Words were deserting him, stuck at the back of his throat and refusing to come out: The foundation of his emotional life had always been silence, certainly when it concerned his feelings, but this was different. The situation, saying goodbye and acknowledging the possibility that it might be the last time to ever do so - sharp edges and neat details, he did not want to ruin it. If he were to speak they would have to face the consequences and stick to it, but avoiding his feelings was impossible: a tricky matter, the solution required too much clarity. He coughed and looked away.

"I must speak to you and then I'm going," Jemma said, grabbing his arm and pulling him to the side. She looked as though she had been crying.

"Go on then."

"Was it your choice?" She gestured at his uniform. "To enlist?"

Shock, mixing with rage. It felt like an insult coming from her, his oldest and best friend: A long time ago she had analyzed his character, during a long drive through the country, the two of them together; She had told him he ought to belong to a museum, a stereotypical country gentleman. They looked at each other, he was unsure of what to say. There must have been something that would sound neither flippant nor empty, something that would not bring along a long string of accusations, something that would not start an argument. At last, indignant, he went on, "How could you ask such a tomfool question? You! Don't you know me?"

"Oh come on, Fitz! You love the idea of saving the day, a notion so embedded in your education it could be traced back for centuries. Playing the hero, even now when you could be blown to bits!"

Tears in his blue eyes, Jemma's were already watery; Not that it mattered, this was the very place where people cried. Then, a sharp pain at his heart, the thought of Jemma thinking badly of him - unbearable: Everyone but her. Incredible loneliness and misunderstandings. He thought of his father all those harsh and angry words cutting the air and the insults before he had walked out on him and his mother and then, weeks earlier, an argument, voices raising and falling, and Alistair Fitz's heartless threat that were would be consequences to Fitz snapping on him. Ever the fool, he had not believed him, and now, there he stood, with his train ticket, the movement order in his pocket, and his khaki uniform - half a day away from his departure. He was being sent to war.

Jemma stepped forward, quickly, swiftly, one fluid movement, and embraced him, burying her head in the crook of his neck. His hands on her back pulling her closer, a silent and comforting embrace - bodies pressed together, no space between them. He sighed, then, little by little, with infinite and gentle delegations, Fitz let her go, stepping back and fixing his jacket.

"I'm sorry." He started, composing himself, trying to keep his voice calm and balanced, linear, not letting the panic ooze through. For a moment he thought about making a joke about the fact that his Alistair Fitz would have probably arranged his marriage had his son not been Jewish, but the joke died in his throat; No need to make things worse. Instead, he went on, "It's father. We had a row and he said... He said it was time for me to become a man. I'll try not to be a hero, if that's what you mean."

She nodded, pushing her hair behind her ears. Then, her fingertips on his clean-shaven cheeks. A warm and tentative touch, soft and hesitant, tracing the line of his cheekbones and jaw as if she was trying to memorize every single detail of such a well-known face.

"Just come back. Come back to me, safe and sound."

They stood there, paralyzed by fear and blocked by all the things they didn't dare or didn't  know how to say. So much in such little time, it was slipping through their fingers, running away from them. Where to begin?

"Lovely," he said. "You look lovely."

A group of young boys passed in front of them, ignoring them, their chatter filling the air, until they turned around the corner out of sight and could not be heard any longer. A temporary distraction, the world shrunk once more to the two of them, facing each other at last. There had to be something to say that would somehow help him to expose his vulnerability, but all he could think about was Jemma standing in front of him. His cheeks flushed in embarrassment, flustered, all he could think about was taking her hand, but he didn't.

"Come on, they already gave me my movement order."

Down the street and then left, heading to St. James's Park, they walked in silence. Green with the first spots of yellow and orange, autumn was, without any doubt, coming earlier that year. A child babbling in his pram, pushed on by a stone-faced governess and children playing, running around, unaware of tragedy, looked over by adults reading newspapers. Voices buzzing, loudly, indistinctive sentences that added up one with the other creating a cacophony of sounds: The park felt alive.

Memories flooding Fitz's brain, overwhelming him. They had spent many a thousand afternoons there, away from everything and everyone. Old friends reconnecting, sitting on a bench and eating their lunch, sitting too close to each other to be strangers and too far away compared to what they would have wanted the distance to be. They had stuck to etiquette and conventions as if supervised and spied on by society - it had always ended too quickly. But there had been something thrilling nonetheless, those small and restricted moments of intimacy and that particular, thrilling sensation that came with the awareness of leaping boundaries - making things easier and more effortless every day that passed. Above all, they had been strangers there and consequentially they had allow themselves to get lost, start again, get rid of previous experiences and upbringing.

"Jemma," he said. He name sounded differently now, new, a peculiar inflection provided by his hesitance. A guttural sound. He closed his fist, knuckles turning white and fingernails digging into his palms. Self-contained, he went on, "Do you remember our drive in the countryside? I daresay, all I wanted was for you to respect me."

"I did! I never thought you to be one of those English country gentlemen who... You're not even English."

He laughed, genuinely and lightheartedly. "Even now?"

"Even now."

Relief washed over him: he trembled. Now, far away from everything and everyone, on a sunny September afternoon, it mattered more than ever that she did not think badly of him or a low cad.

All that could be heard was the gentle sound of leaves rattling in the soft afternoon breeze, and the chirping of birds, sitting on branches and hidden by the foliage. And there they were, standing in a secluded area, under the old oak tree, a familiar place down to the last detail, but the future and the promises were both gone. Jemma appeared to be studying the way the shadows danced on the fresh cut grass - blurry, almost washed away; He would have expected it to be different, sharper, easier to remember, less absurd.

Tentatively he smiled at her: a private smile, a sorrowful one, lips tightly pressed together. He should tell her that he was scared, in exactly so many words, but if this was the end there were more important things to do and say - surely she knew. A long time ago, on a spring morning, time had felt ahead of them and a whole new world had revealed itself to them, offering infinite possibilities. Such time was infinite and had always existed, lingering between them, it was a situation that at some point had no longer been overlookable.

Tears, blurring his vision, gathering on his eyelashes - now Jemma and the surroundings looked watery and indistinct - as she let go of his hand. This was the moment to tell her that he had never been this scared in his entire life, not even with his father there: he was being sent away to the trenches, the horrors on the continent were well known now that the idea of a Blitzkrieg was nothing but a delusional wish and distant memory.

Jemma let go of his hand, an action met by desperate and urgent movements: his face close to hers. Inches were separating them, her eyes wandering from his to his lips and back up again, her fingertips danced on his skin and her left hand took his - fingers curling at the contact before closing into a firm grip. Their mouths met midway, just as the awareness that they should not be doing this started to settle in: By all means, they should consider this to be the end and let each other go, it was not allowed.

His hand on her back, he held her close, clung to her as he smiled - nay, grinned - against her lips. A light touch, far away from indecency, lips pressed on lips, a light and gentle touch, at the very beginning of the scale of impropriety. Not the first one, the situation did not carry the ludicrous feeling of having the other's face so close to their own, but still frozen in time: outside time and space, the Big Ben, here, could not be heard and nothing, not even reality, could reach them.

No soft sights, no confidence, no movements that slowly became less restrained - that, for a while, was the kiss. They could be seen. They could be seen, this was not allowed, there was no way to justify and explain away what was going on between them. They were vulnerable and exposed and should have stopped: This wasn't some dark corner of the house. To hell with it, daringly Fitz run the tip of his tongue on her lips and she parted them, the tips of  their tongues touching in playful exploration a sighing sound forming at the back of his throat, which marked the moment that changed everything. One last kiss, and then they'd never talk about it again.

A long time ago, he had looked forward to the new century, naively wishing for it to be a kind one. He had blabbered about it for weeks to his sister, who had been nothing but a baby at the time understood nothing about the pain and the delicious and intriguing thoughts that moving to the twentieth century provided. After all, what did she know? She wasn't Alistair Fitz's daughter and was too young to know about the pain his father had inflicted. To his mother he had announced that it would be a century of healing that would distance him forever from his father's influence: The past, he had been convinced, would be a foreign land where things were done differently. There he stood now, ever the fool.

"Jemma, if I don't-" He paused, panic and fear were starting to have the best of him - the only two things he could think about. "If I don't come back."

"Fitz."

"No. If I don't, I want you to know... I'm glad we met again, started from there."

"I hope you had a happy time, thirty minutes per day." She joked, smiling sadly.

He nodded. "Jemma, will you do something for me? Will keep an eye on Máiréad? Write to her, give her advice when needed, be a friend to her like you were to me."

"It won't come to that, Fitz."

"But if it will."

"I say." She paused, looking at him and taking his hand. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

"I can't, Hunter's party." He had never sounded more apologetic in his entire life. Damn Hunter and his party, he could say goodbye in the early evening and then meet Jemma's, but guilt - sharp and hurting him. It would not do.

"Later, then. Tomorrow, what time are you going out?"

"Eight thirty from Waterloo." Fear was making him bold, inhibitions lowered; He did not care and felt transformed into a different person as he heard himself say, "Will you spend the night with me?"

He knew well, and quite well indeed, what it was that made a man want to go away with the woman he liked, but he had always thought that a decent Tommie had to think twice before getting his girl in trouble. He himself had thought twice. But this! With their future at risk, it seemed like the perfect moment to plan to tryst. And nowadays, there were ways: Bobbi had told him about them. He may regret it, but later! He might get killed and then he might think _Oh God, if only I'd_... Or he might wish he had not. But oh well, it was their last chance and before today they had gotten close to it, but not quite.

"Yes! Yes, of course I will! Where?"

"I'll give Hunter's party a miss."

"No, no, you must go. Then come late, after eleven is best. I'll be at home. We'll have to be quiet, though."

"We'll be quiet," he stated matter of factly.

From the very first moment, the past was embalmed in his memory and the more unforgotten. He looked at her, his Jemma, the woman he loved, his best friend. She had caught his attention a long time ago, in some ways it felt as if he had been alarmed from the very beginning when he had seen her run away mischievously - the local policeman blowing his whistle. Her mother had called her the first suffragette of the village, there she was stirring up trouble. Alistair Fitz's son and Jemma Simmons: A friendship to remember. They had been equals in all but social status, minds thinking alike: she was as smart as he was, if not more, though he would never admit it out loud.  

"Why now?" She asked.

"My future's at risk. My colours are in the mud. It's not a good thing to find oneself living by an outmoded code of conduct, people take you to be a fool. I'm coming round to their opinion." He stopped. It was no longer the past he was trying to hold on to, England had changed and so had he, it was the future: His choices! His life! He would come back, ignore his father, and simply resume. Live! Love! He cupped her cheek with his hand, thumb brushing against her lips, and said, "Oh, my dear."


End file.
